


A Mile

by RedGold



Series: Sixty-Three Thousand and Three Hundred and Sixty Inches [2]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Catholicism, Death of child, Depression, F/M, Lorynn, PTSD, Sequel, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, faith - Freeform, to An Inch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 03:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20370313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedGold/pseuds/RedGold
Summary: Both Flynn and Lorena survived the night their daughter is murdered by Rittenhouse agents. Now they have a mission to steal the Mothership and change history. But they must wait until it's finished, a whole year and a half. Can they bring themselves back together, or will they only drift farther apart?Nothing good comes from knowing the future.Sequel to 'An Inch'





	A Mile

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is not as dark as An Inch but there are triggering subjects. Please read the tags.

**A Mile**

Every mile begins with a step, twelve inches to a foot.

And with each step that Lorena took, her chance to turn back slipped farther away. But that was okay, she needed to do this, she needed to save her daughter.

The bar was pretty grimy, not at all what she would have expected of the man. Perhaps he was hoping something would happen there. Like a bar fight or shoot out which he might conveniently get caught in the crossfire of. She could relate. But those days were also behind her. 

Now... she had a mission.

“I’m happily married, thank you,” he said drearily after she sat down next to him.

She tried not to take offense; he clearly wasn’t paying attention. Not many prostitutes walked around in black slacks and a basic button-up blouse. At least, not when they are working. Though, she could be wrong. She could see how some men might go for the look if they were seeking paid companionship.

“So am I,” she replied, tilting her hand to show her wedding ring. “Or, at least I was, before Rittenhouse murdered my daughter.”

He glanced sharply at her. He knew that name.

“You built a time machine, Anthony,” Lorena tells him. “And it was the biggest mistake you ever made.”

Getting Anthony Bruhl on board with their plan was stupidly easy. Getting him to stop drinking, that had been more difficult. It’s hard to tell someone to stop drowning themselves in a bottle when you’d happily do so yourself. 

They helped him get sober and in doing so, got themselves sober. Rationally, they knew it was good for them, but that was one less tool to help with the pain. Of knowing you only lived because you couldn’t move fast enough to save your daughter. That in another timeline, you had _tried harder,_ and it meant the bullet that tore through you was fatal. 

Garcia said not to look at it that way. There was no way to know why things changed this time. It may have been the Rittenhouse agent who didn’t try harder. He hadn’t even checked to make sure she died, or that the wound was fatal. What assassin worth his salt didn’t double-tap?

But Lorena knew the truth... she was a horrible mother.

No, no that’s not true. That’s just what the voices say, the dark ones who knew nothing of the truth and only wanted to sow discord. 

Did it make them any less wrong?

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” Lorena said as she sat in the confessional. “It has been two months, three weeks, and four days since my last confession.”

“When someone gets that detailed, it usually means they are being too hard on themselves,” the priest replied. He sounded older, probably the sixty-some-odd year-old priest she had seen earlier that day, during mass. 

When they returned to the states to start on their quest to save their daughter and take out Rittenhouse, it became difficult to attend regular church services. She couldn’t go back to her old church either, back to her friends... they all believed she was dead. A few months into the investigation, well after it was confirmed it was her blood all over the back seat of the SUV, she was listed as presumed dead. They hadn’t quite given up on finding Garcia alive.

It was just another reminder she was supposed to be dead.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Job lately,” she tells him, turning her Bible over in her hand. It wasn’t her family’s Bible, the one her mother gave her. No, that had been left in the house, returned to her mom who had to take care of things now that… 

“And why is he on your mind these days?” he prompted her gently.

“_How can we accept all the good things that God gives us and not accept the bad?_” she quoted Job. She opened the bible and pulled out a picture, one printed off from her mother’s Facebook page. It was Iris, taken on her fifth birthday. 

“I would tell you that God has a plan, a purpose, for all of us,” he replied, his voice still gentle. “But I don’t believe that is what you want to hear. What was taken from you, my child?”

Lorena choked back a sob. It was hardly the first time a priest had asked her that question. “My… my little girl. She was murdered and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

There was a thoughtful pause before he said, “Do you feel as if you are being punished, for being wicked, as Job’s friends might accuse you of?”

His friends accused his children of being wicked, that they died because they got what they deserved, but Iris was only five, she had no sins to bare. Lorena though, while she tried her best to pious, she knew she was no saint. She had sins… God should have taken her. 

God did, before. Then things… changed...

“I want answers,” she says through gritted teeth. “I want to know… _why_.” 

Why did God let her daughter die? Why did God let her live? 

Garcia, she understood. God needed an archangel to stand against Rittenhouse. But why take everything away from him? Take his daughter who was without sin? 

Why couldn’t God have only taken her?

“I believe Job asked the same question to God,” the priest said without rebuke. “God didn’t answer him either.”

“I... I trust God to know what they’re doing,” she says barely above a whisper. “I just want to know why I was spared. What am I supposed to do?”

If she was just to be another soldier in the fight against Rittenhouse, why wasn’t she saved before? Why did God only save her now?

“We can’t know what God has planned for us,” he reminds her softly. “He will reveal his designs when he is ready.”

“_God keeps their future a secret and builds a wall around them to protect them,_” she finally manages to utter another passage from Job. 

“I’m sorry?” he asks for clarification.

“Nothing good comes from knowing the future.”

When Lorena returned to the warehouse where they’d been living for the past few months, she found it a little more crowded than usual. Stiv was around often enough, being a friend and stabilizing force. Garcia had recruited others to the cause, a small strike team of soldiers. A few had their own run-ins with Rittenhouse and this promised them vengeance.

“Anthony’s given us the heads-up,” Garcia told her as she made her way over to the large table everyone was gathered around, a blueprint spread across it. “The Mothership is in the final phase of testing. It won’t be long now.”

She glanced at the design. “We’re going with the _Hindenburg_ then?”

“It’s not often we see so many Rittenhouse members all together, and vulnerable,” Garcia replied, satisfied with his decision.

She nodded, it was a good first strike. Perhaps an only strike.

One of the men, Karl, had worked with Garcia before. He pointed at the kitchen which sat below the passenger deck. “We plant the bomb here, it takes out everyone above it.”

There was a light murmur of agreement, but Garcia looked at her. “Lorena?”

Her eyes danced over the blueprints before saying. “We don’t plant a bomb, we turn the blimp _into_ the bomb.” She pointed to the keel access catwalk. “During the changeover, someone goes in through here and gains access to the gas cell. We place an ignitor on the vent valve. When they reach altitude and go to level out, valve opens, sets off the ignitor. One spark on the venting hydrogen and the whole thing goes up like a roman candle. And bonus, it won’t be so obvious it was sabotage. The mystery of how the _Hindenburg_ caught fire will remain just that.”

“It may not set the passenger cabin on fire,” Karl pointed out.

“Not going to matter much if you’re falling from six hundred and fifty feet in the air inside a burning tin can.” Something else occurred to her. “I’ll have to insulate the ignitor housing to keep it from sparking prematurely, but I could put an electromagnetic clamp on it. Even if someone finds it. They won’t be able to remove it, not fast enough at least.” 

Karl nodded. “That’s a good plan.”

“Trust your Sapper soldier,” she said with a grin.

Twenty-eight days of pure hell made thirty-four hours of giving birth feel like a vacation. 

Sapper Training had been a month of learning how to survive and stay coherent on only three hours of sleep a night, if you were lucky. Of weapons and ballistics training, including shaped charges and improved explosives. Of carrying someone on your back through miles of swamp, throwing up blood from something you accidently swallowed when you fell into the murky waters. But no, sir, I am not quitting, sir, one more mile, sir.

She was the only woman in her Sapper Training class that started with over two hundred, but only thirty-eight graduated. Of course, because she was a woman, she knew she would never see real combat, even after she got her Sapper Tab. But she did it to prove to herself that she could.

Glancing over at Garcia, there was that crinkle in his eyes and small upturn of his lips that told her he was proud. Like he was just a hair short of saying, ‘see, that’s my girl, isn’t she smart and amazing.’ 

“You’re lucky if I give you the time of day,” she had told him when they first met because he had made a horrible first impression.

“Yeah, I think I would be,” he replied back, and it was just so honest and sincere and... and she was a goner.

She still was... unfortunately.

There was a short discussion about the mission. Some assignments given. They still had weeks, maybe months if something happened during final testing. But there was a clear path forward. 

But now they wait.

With Garcia being a wanted fugitive and Lorena presumed dead, they couldn’t exactly go a lot of places. At least they had some space in the warehouse. A serviceable kitchen, clean bathroom, a broken in sofa in front of a decent television, an old and battered stackable washer/dryer, and an office turned into a bedroom. 

Their routine was the same, of course, that’s the point of routines. 

If Lorena didn’t have something to occupy herself, like building an insulated igniter, then she was either at church or asleep. Thankfully, she supposed, they had plenty of work to do over the last year, recruiting Anthony, building the team, making plans, etc. 

On Iris’ sixth birthday—what should have been her sixth birthday—Lorena had sat in a church and prayed for answers. Garcia came with her, not saying a word, to her or to God, not verbally at least. They got back and she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She collapsed into a heap and cried. Garcia sat beside her and pulled her in, holding her tight, even as tears streamed down his cheeks. 

On the anniversary of her death, well, Anthony didn’t have to know they fell off wagon for a night and a day. When they came to the next morning, they were both sprawled out on the floor, empty liquor bottles too numerous to number. They looked at each other without judgement. 

On Iris’ seventh birthday she once again prayed to God. God still didn’t answer her.

“There’s stew made, if you want some,” Garcia tells her after she’s done sketching a design for the ignitor.

“Thanks, I’ll get some in a bit,” she tells him and makes one or two last notes.

Garcia cooked, she cleaned, he took out the trash, she did the shopping. It was pretty much like it was before. Except now they never sat down to eat together… it was too easy to remember there was a third plate missing from the table. So he would cook, and they would eat however convenient it was. 

He made stew, his grandmother’s recipe, and sat down in front of the television. He put on a _Hindenburg_ documentary. Research books were stacked on a table. He looked… almost normal. There was clearly pain in him, a drive for vengeance… but… he wasn’t the Garcia Flynn in the journal.

Lucy had written about how that Garcia’s life had been before he stole the Mothership. That he didn’t care if he lived or died, a man who had nothing to live for, even if he saved his wife and daughter. She could imagine him living in a warehouse like this, only grimier and scattered with trash. He might not have changed his clothes for days, weeks… 

Hell, if he had died and she had lived… that’s how she would be right now.

Maybe… maybe that’s why God spared her this time. 

Lorena and Flynn weren’t… a couple. They were more like partners. Still working together, knowing how to help each other get through what was happening, but Lorena took the bed and Flynn the sofa. Well, when he could sleep. They were still working on his nightmares. If he woke up screaming, she’d go to him, let him hold her if he needed that rock. 

Even archangels need a rock to steady themselves against…

It was the only time they dared touch each other, otherwise their skin would burn at the pain of their loss.

“I just need a few things,” she told him as she sat down on the other side of the sofa, “and I can build the ignitor. I’ll make a list and give it to Stiv.”

“Okay,” he said with a nod, not questioning her in this subject matter, not that he ever did. “I’ll need you to make it idiot proof. It will either be me or Stiv placing it and you know us. A pair of demolition idiots.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled slightly at his comment. “_When in doubt, C4,_ but just slapping on as many bricks as you can is not proper application technique.”

“That’s why I have you.” There was that small upturn of his mouth. 

For a moment, just a split of a second, everything was right, as it should be, until the gapping chasm that was the absence of their daughter dragged the smiles from their lips. 

How could they even _think_ about being happy when their daughter was dead?

“You know, I can place it,” she offered to break the silence. “Might be safer that way.”

“You’re going to stay here,” he told her, “in the present, when we go back.”

“When was that decided?” she asked a bit harshly.

He frowned at her. “It’s always been the plan. I steal the Mothership and go back to 1937. There is no stop in between.”

The answer seemed obvious. “Then I’ll come with you to Mason Industries. I’m not as good a shot as you but I can handle myself.” 

“No.” He shook his head as if this was already a done thing. “Rittenhouse thinks you’re dead. You come on the raid and they’ll know you’re alive.”

“Oh, come on,” Lorena held onto the vowels. She wasn’t going to be left out of this fight. “Anthony knows where all the cameras are. I wear a hat, binder, and baggy clothes, no one will know.”

“You’re not going,” he snapped at her, loudly. 

He _never_ raised his voice. Not at Iris, and not at her.

“You don’t make that decision!” She couldn’t stop herself from shouting back at him even though she knew, she _knew,_ this was all wrong and it needed to stop, right now.

“Well, I did.” Garcia may have turned down the volume but the intensity was still there. His hand trembled as he rubbed his face and stood up. “You’re staying here. End of discussion.”

“This is hardly a discussion!” Lorena shouted after him as he went to put his half-eaten bowl of stew in the sink. There was a war going on inside Lorena, and she wasn’t sure who was fighting who. “Why?” She wanted to scream it at God but Garcia was in front of her. “Explain it to me!”

“Someone has to stay behind!” he yelled right back at her, then dug in his heels. “If this works, if we stop Rittenhouse, then that night never happened. But if we're both in the past, then we both remember. Iris deserves to have at least one parent who isn’t…”

“Broken?” she offers up the term as if it insulted their mothers. 

“Yes…” he swallows hard. 

“Then all the more reason I should go, and you should stay,” she finds herself on this runaway train and can’t stop. Things are bubbling up from crevices inside her she didn’t even know existed… or didn’t want to know. “You were always the better parent, Garcia. Iris needs you more than she needs me.”

“Don’t say that,” he admonishes her, but his words are tired. “You are a great mother to Iris.”

Wounds were ripping open at their own volition. “Yeah, so great her murderer was standing right in front of me and I didn’t stop him from shooting her dead.”

“He snuck up on you!” Garcia growled. “Christ, Lorena. You heard the noise! I didn’t. Armed men snuck into our home and I _slept through it_.”

They stared each other down, hard and cold. Whatever was happening, it was a long time coming… and it wasn’t even close to being over.

“Fine,” she says sharply. “We both failed her that night. It doesn’t change the fact that you deserve to be a parent to Iris more than I do.”

“That’s the depression talking,” he pointed out, perhaps a little harshly. 

“Is it?” She was really asking herself that question, and she kept getting conflicting answers. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. I _have_ to go, otherwise you could return to a timeline where I died that night.” 

_Like you were supposed to,_ the voices politely reminded her.

Garcia shakes his head. “That won’t happen.”

“You can’t know that.”

“It is _not_ going to happen,” he says sharply through a tense jaw. “You will be here when I get back, and, if everything goes right, Iris will be here with you.”

“And where will you be?” Don’t say it. Don’t Say It. Don’t. Say. It. “Running off with Lucy?”

Lorena regretted it the moment it came out of her mouth but there was no going back. She couldn’t look at him in her shame, only listen to him walk out the door.

It was only a matter of time before this happened, right? Before everything broke completely between them. They couldn’t keep going on like this. Following their routine when they had to take careful steps across the caverns of loss and despair below them. 

Her throat in her stomach, Lorena got up and walked into the bedroom. She collapsed onto the bed and curled up on herself. 

Rational thought told her that it _was_ the depression talking. That she did everything she could, they both did. Iris needed them moving forward, to save her, or, at the very least, utterly destroy Rittenhouse so no one else could suffer her fate. Dwelling on failures, real or not, got them nowhere.

But the dark voices of her guilt were louder. They screamed and demanded to be heard.

You can’t hear them when you’re dead... but she wanted to see her daughter when she passed, so sleep would have to do.

She doesn’t know how much time goes by, but she feels a dip in the bed as someone sits down beside her. Without looking she knows it’s Garcia. His very presence is as familiar to her as an old worn sweater. She wants to say something, say she is sorry, but she’s immobilized in her fear. 

Sometimes, that which is broken just can’t be fixed.

“We said a lot of things to each other,” he says quietly once he knows she’s awake and listening. “But I don’t think any of it was what we really wanted to say.”

Lorena turned onto her back and looked up at him. He wore the same shade of guilt and shame that she did. 

“I don’t think either of us will convince the other that they carry the blame for what happened that night,” he continued, his voice tired and slightly trembling. 

“Rittenhouse did this,” she agreed, even as she had to clamp down on the voices. “I couldn’t stop the shooter, but Rittenhouse sent them.”

“Because I found the money transfers,” he reminded her, then his shoulders slumped. “Which only existed because Rittenhouse wanted to build a time machine so they could...”

“Play God,” she finished for him.

“Yeah.” He licked his lips as he often did, trying to land on his words. “Just know that I don’t blame you, for any of this, Lorena. I don’t even blame you if you blame me.”

Lorena reached up and took his hand in hers. “I don’t blame you.” She let out a sardonic laugh. “And I don’t blame you if you blame me.”

He let out a breath that was almost a chuckle, squeezing her hand gently. “Well, I guess we're consistent at least.”

Silence stretched out between them. It felt like one wall had come down, but there was so many more...

She sat up, back against the headboard. It took her a minute, but she finally said, “About Lucy, I... I didn’t mean it like that. I know you’d never be unfaithful to me.”

Lorena was quite well aware of how handsome Garcia was, from the cut of his shoulders to the soft crinkle in his eyes. A suit, a shirt, a turtleneck... it really didn’t matter what he was wearing. Sometimes she wondered if she married a damn GQ model. 

It wasn’t _why_ she married him, but it was a nice bonus.

And she was well aware of the looks other women and men would give him. Some accepting their disappointment when they saw his wedding ring, others taking it as challenge accepted. But Lorena never worried, never got jealous when he spent time with others of either sex, because she trusted him. He was hers, and she was his. 

If he had met this Lucy some other way, or if the journal hadn’t told them explicitly what will happen, then she wouldn’t have even considered it as a possibility. But it did... 

_Nothing good comes from knowing the future._

“I just...” Lorena bowed her head so she couldn’t see his eyes. “I wonder if maybe she is your future. That maybe we weren’t meant to be together forever. Or, well, death do us part, right? I did die.”

“I’ve given that a lot of thought and I worried, a small part of me wondering if it was my future to fall in love with Lucy, but then I realized something.” He squeezed her hand again. “The journal isn’t prophecy. It said you died, but you didn’t. This could be the timeline slowly correcting itself. _You_ were always meant to be my future.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “What kind of future do we have without Iris?”

Garcia pulled her forward, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. What did it say about their chances when the only way they could touch was to console the other who has broken down again? 

One to be the rock as the other is batted around by the waves of despair.

“I don’t know,” he admits and his voice shakes. “But whatever it is, I know I want it to be with you.”

Lorena wants to believe him, she needs to believe him, but the voices are just so loud. She pulls back enough to look at him. “But what you told Lucy—what you will tell Lucy. You were going to walk away from me.”

“_He_ said that, not me,” Garcia says firmly. “And he... he didn’t know what he was saying. He was lost, he was... depressed, and he carried his guilt without someone there to stop him from being crushed by it.”

“I will always be your friend, Garcia,” she told him as she lifted her hand to touch his cheek. When was the last time she did so? She couldn’t remember. “I will help you carry your burdens as we stop Rittenhouse. But...”

Oh, God, it all became clear and it tore through her like black talons.

“Lorena?” he prompted her softly as she found herself staring through him.

She cleared her throat. “Maybe it’s for the best that I get erased, forget about what happened. I can be your friend, but what good would I be as a wife, broken like this.”

“Don’t say that.” It’s his turn to touch her cheek, but he ends up holding her head in his hand as strength drains from her.

“You have the bigger heart, Garcia,” she tells him even as she relishes the touch. “You’ll make it through this. You’ll love again, whether it be Lucy, or... whoever… or her, the other Lorena, she can be the woman you need—”

His lips are on hers and for a moment she couldn’t remember her own name if asked. It had been well over a year since he last kissed her, but it felt like only minutes ago. Every gentle movement, every warm caress was a study in opposites: familiar and new, uplifting and heartbreaking...

Sometimes things that are broken can’t be fixed, but they can be turned into something new.

He pulled back and she found she was clutching at him, and he at her. The room was spinning slightly on its axis. 

“Whatever happens,” he says as he holds her tight, his head resting atop of hers, “I love you. You, the other you, every version of you in every possible timeline. I want—I _need_ you.”

“I…” the voices got a little quieter. “I need you too.”

Garcia kissed the top of her head, then gently maneuvered them both so they are laying on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her again and they cuddle into each other. They stay like that through the night, Garcia actually managing to get some restful sleep. 

She never forgot what it was like to wake up and see him, peaceful looking, his hair flopped down over his eyes. But seeing it again, after so long… did she have any right to feel this way? To have a moment of peace and happiness? To remember all the good times… before…

Lorena buried her head against his chest and he instinctively held her tighter. 

“How can I be happy, with my husband, when our daughter is dead?” she asked the priest the next day. Every moment of happiness felt like a betrayal. But it also felt good, felt… healing. 

“Do you think she looks down on you, from above, and doesn’t want to see you happy?” his words are gentle and non-judgmental.

“I think she’d rather be alive,” Lorena says sharply but then calms herself. 

There was a small moment of silence before the priest said, “You are allowed to both miss someone and also carry on with life, find joy and happiness. Your child will live on in your heart, but that heart still needs to beat, full and strong.”

His words echoed in her head as she went back to the warehouse. Was she allowed to be happy? Could she be happy?

The night before had been a step. The first in a mile. They would never be able to go back to who they were before, but perhaps they could find themselves again. It wouldn’t be easy, but no, sir, I am not quitting, sir, one more mile, sir.

They took a little step every day. 

They allowed themselves a smile, small and gentle. 

They allowed themselves a laugh, subdued and soft.

They allowed themselves a touch, light and comforting.

They allowed themselves to sleep, together, but just sleep.

Lorena didn’t even realize she was doing it. She was rechecking the trip mechanism of the igniter and it took all her concentration. It wasn’t until she looked up and saw Garcia smiling at her, that crinkle back in his eyes, that she knew something had happened. “What?”

“You were humming,” he explained, perhaps looking the happiest she had seen him yet.

“You hate when I hum,” she reminded him, her brow furrowed. 

“I hated it more when you didn’t,” he replied simply.

She couldn’t stop herself from smirking. “Next you’ll be wanting me to play a prank on you.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” he said thoughtfully, then went back to reading his book.

Two days later, she hid the coffee and he had to solve a riddle to find it… without the aid of having had his coffee. The whole debacle ended up giving them the most filling laughs they had had since… 

It would hit them, their loss, just like that, and a moment would be over. But they kept finding new ones, sometimes buried in old ones. 

“_I could say, ‘I will not complain. I will forget my pain and put a smile on my face.’ But the suffering still frightens me,_” Lorena quoted Job as she once again sat in the confessional.

“Does it still? Frighten you?” the priest asked.

Lorena took a slow, long, deep breath. “Yes... but not like before. I...” She takes another breath. “The people who murdered my daughter, I can’t let them win and destroy me too. I will always miss her, and I know some days will be harder than others, but I can’t be afraid to let myself be happy.”

“There is no shame in finding joy in one’s life, even after tragedy,” he tells her.

If fate was so cruel that they would not be able to save Iris, only destroy her murderers, then Lorena would live her life. And a life without joy wouldn’t be a life at all. 

She walked back to the warehouse, and she knew something was up the moment she saw Garcia, his face a little grim and determined. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied as he stood over the table, looking down at the _Hindenburg_ blueprints and their plans. “The Mothership is finally ready. Anthony has given us the go.”

“How soon?” she asks even as she swallows hard. There had been too many delays already. A year and a half had passed since that horrible night. It felt like an eternity, and only a few days ago.

“Tuesday.” He licked his lips, thinking. “Mason will be at a symposium. Anthony says the staff will be lighter. Plus, he wants to be able to get Rufus out, just in case.”

“Yeah,” she says so he doesn’t have to finish the thought. 

Anything could go wrong, anything could change, she was proof of that. 

After a long, rational discussion, it was decided that Lorena would indeed stay. One of them needed to, and not just to give Iris at least one parent who didn’t have to live through her death. If this mission failed, someone needed to stay behind to keep fighting. To make sure Rittenhouse paid for what they did. And since Rittenhouse thought she was dead, it would give Lorena the advantage.

Tuesday. 

Three days.

All of this could be washed away and she’d never remember the pain. 

Lorena stepped forward with purpose. She ran her hand up Garcia’s neck, into his hair, and pulled him down so she could kiss him. He growled against her mouth, his hands going to her waist and pulling her flush against him. 

“Come back to me,” she says in a hushed tone. “I don’t care what you have to do to stop Rittenhouse and save Iris, how dark it might get, let me be your light, let me be your rock.”

“I will, _Srećo,_ I promise.”

Whatever happened next, whatever path their lives take, it wasn’t going to be easy. 

But they would walk it together.

Every inch... and every mile.


End file.
